Implications
by JayRain
Summary: One hot night after his fifth year, Harry can't sleep and ponders the implications of the terms of the prophecy.  PostOotP, preHBPDH.


_Implications_

_by TheDepartedFanfictionist_

_"...And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."_

Not for the first time that summer Sibyll Trelawney's ghostly voice haunted Harry's sleepless night, and he'd had a lot of sleepless nights; it was now July 30th-the eve of his sixteenth birthday-and he'd not had a proper night's sleep since June. It didn't help that this summer was abnormally hot and humid. The air was heavy and stagnant and pressed down on him . But even worse than the weight of the air was the dense weight of his conflicted emotions. They pressed on his heart and lungs and soul, suffocating him.

He kicked the blanket violently and turned over on his stomach. The sheets were damp beneath his bare body and his sweat-soaked hair dangled limply in his eyes. He needed a haircut but didn't care. The street lamp's orange glow slanted through the window at an oblique angle, slicing across his face and gleaming in his eyes, their emerald color obscured by the orange light. Lying there in the sickly light, he didn't know what was worse: the heat or the thinking.

He'd been thinking and reliving and lamenting for over a month now. Even when he wanted sleep so badly it pained him he could not make himself close his eyes for fear of the vivid dreams that waited to haunt him. With an irritated sigh he sat up and punched his pillow and shoved all the blankets to the floor. He flopped on his back, his head bouncing a bit on the mattress, simultaneously hard and lumpy. He rubbed his itching, burning eyes, the eyes of the sleep-deprived, and again the voice said in his head, "And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal."

Harry knew, had known for five years now, that he was marked: the sensitive, lightning-bold shaped scar that slashed across his forehead was physical proof that Voldemort marked him, selected him, chose him. He'd had to learn to live with the implications of that mark. He knew in his heart that he would have to murder or be murdered sometime soon, as Voldemort grew in power and influence and his followers slithered out of hiding looking to rejoin their master. But in his head he could not comprehend that. He held up his hand and turned the sweaty palm toward his face, ran the fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. This hand would either hold a wand or sword and cast the final curse or blow that would bring Voldemort to his knees; the Flight From Death would at last succumb to a power higher than his own, a power he could not harness.

Power.

It was what Voldemort hungered for, what he killed family and friends and gave his very life to attain. It was what he would die for, as well, unless he could first outwit and control death. Harry too sometimes wished he knew how to control death. If he could, he would have his parents back, and Cedric, and Sirius. This last one made Harry turn on his stomach again and punch the pillow with all he had in him. Damn Voldemort and his followers for luring both of them into the Department of Mysteries. Damn Sirius for following Harry right into Voldemort's trap, and damn himself being so blindly fooled. Damn Voldemort for having that power over Harry, over his mind and emotions.

Power.

Power wasn't always magical ability; it lay in the ability to manipulate words, to manipulate situations. Voldemort mastered that power as well and lorded it over follower and foe alike. For the umpteenth time Harry cursed himself for falling prey to Voldemort's tricks.

_But who wouldn't have?_ asked the little voice in his head.

_Hermione_, he answered back. She was so cool and rational, she would have made sure she had all the answers before gallivanting off in pursuit of the Dark Lord. _And Ron_, he added. He had a family full of wizards who had access to secret information. He would have asked them first. So the answer was, simply, that many people Harry knew of wouldn't have immediately, irrationally thought to take the Department of Mysteries by force. Nor would any other fifteen-year-old wizard attempt the foolhardy act of chasing down and facing the Dark Lord. They had all followed him loyally, but if they were in charge they would have handled it differently. Instinctively he knew this.

He'd acted rashly, and since Voldemort had not deprived him of enough already: parents, godfather, a normal adolescence, for example, he would deprive Harry of sleep, too.

Maybe this was part of Voldemort's plan to subtly kill Harry: deprive him of sleep so long he'd go insane and either kill himself, or his brain and body would shut down completely. _Come to think of it, it wouldn't be such a bad way to go, once the end finally came,_ Harry reasoned_. Exist in pain and torment for just a few more weeks or months then suddenly close my eyes and it's over. No blood spilt, no epic battle between good and evil... Just... fall asleep_.

It would also mean the prophecy would have been fulfilled as well.

"Damn that prophecy, while I'm at it," he hissed into the hot, humid semi-darkness. If not for that damn, confounded, stupid prophecy Harry would not be in this mess at all. He'd have grown up with parents who would have instructed him in wizardry from an early age; he wouldn't have spent 11 miserable years and five equally lousy summers with the Dursleys. He sure as hell wouldn't be staring into the darkness of the spare bedroom of number four, Privet Drive, cursing a Dark Lord for robbing him of everything and leaving him with the identity of the marked man, the chosen one who would either kill or be killed.

For over a year now Harry had been pondering the eternal question: Why me? Last summer he'd felt so much resentment building inside of him that he'd taken it out on Ron and Hermione upon his arrival to Grimmauld Place. He'd spent the school year angry with a corrupt government and resentful toward Dumbledore. The old man had always been the closest thing to a grandfather Harry had. In his mind Dumbledore could solve any problem, answer any question, and vanquish any foe. But the whole school year the old wizard had been distant, solving no problems, giving no answers. Harry had been angry with him.

Now, a year later, he wasn't angry anymore. He was furious.

Dumbledore had kept the knowledge of the prophecy from him. He had been right when he told Harry, the morning after Sirius had died, "You're not nearly as angry with me as you should be."

In the weeks since learning of the prophecy Harry had been obsessed with the whole idea of killing and being killed. It occurred to him frequently that he had to face the implications of being a marked man as a man and not as a petty teenager. On the eve of sixteen he felt that he'd come of age earlier than most wizards. Not only that, but he'd probably die earlier, too. Those were, after all, the terms of the prophecy_: "the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not."_

A sudden realization settled in his stomach, heavy, yet cold as ice and making him shiver in the hot night. He would have power Voldemort did not know of. Harry curled into a fetal position, suddenly desperate to feel warm, but inexplicably fearing to reach down and pick a sheet or blanket from the heap off the floor. He would have power the Dark Lord knew not of. He was to be equal in power to Voldemort. Suddenly killing or being killed seemed easy to deal with in comparison to having power not only equal to, but beyond that of Voldemort. Somehow, that scared him far more than pondering his own death.

Who was he to be worthy of all that power? Aside from Voldemort, Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard Harry knew of, and after Dumbledore he would have to say Professor McGonagall. How could he be equal in power to Voldemort, and even more powerful still, having abilities the Dark Lord did not possess, nor expect? How could it be him? The only thing he really excelled at was Quidditch; had Voldemort played on the Slytherin team in his days as Tom Riddle? Somehow Harry doubted that Quidditch ability was what the prophecy referred to. He even allowed himself a small, wry smile at the idea.

As he'd told Hagrid five years ago, he was "just Harry." The innocent eleven-year-old had thought it inconceivable he could possibly be a wizard. The not-so-innocent-sixteen-year-old (for it was now just past midnight) thought it inconceivable that he should be a wizard so powerful the Dark Lord would lock wands with him in a final, epic confrontation. Dumbledore had done so in June, in the Department of Mysteries. Voldemort had fled. He wasn't quite defeated, and Dumbledore was not quite a victor; the fight was simply over. Dumbledore, the most powerful good wizard Harry knew of could not defeat Voldemort-yet somehow Harry was supposed to?

Dumbledore had age, experience, and sheer power and ability on his side. Harry had none of these. He didn't possess a shred of Dumbledore's calm reason. And when it came to wizards and witches his age, he definitely was not qualified to take on the Dark Lord. He didn't have the knowledge, that was for certain. In that department, Hermione was by far more gifted. She would probably lock metaphorical horns in a battle of the brains, quoting magical theory left and right and shooting down any of Voldemort's arguments with quotes from _Hogwarts, a History_. As for Harry, while his grades had never been abysmal, they certainly weren't worth bragging about, either. Again, Harry allowed himself a smile and even a hint of a chuckle. It helped him feel a little warmer again.

But if it was wizarding blood Voldemort wanted Harry didn't have that, either. He had a Muggle-born mother, and was raised by the quintessentially Muggle Dursleys. At the absolute most he could probably claim around 75 wizard bloodline, but that was assuming at least one of his mother's parents had been a witch or wizard, and the way Aunt Petunia talked, that was unlikely. So really, it was probably more like 50-60 wizard blood coursing through his veins. Ron Weasley, now he had a pedigree. As far as he knew the only nonwizard in Ron's family was Molly Weasley's second cousin, who was an accountant. At least that's what Ron said. Uncle Vernon worked with accountants at his job at Grunnings, the drill company. Uncle Vernon didn't care for accountants. Vaguely Harry wondered if Mrs. Weasley's accountant cousin was one of the accountants Vernon Dursley didn't care for.

But he jolted his thoughts back to his laments. Ron had wizard blood, that was for certain. His mother was related to the Black family by marriage, and Blacks certainly did not even conceive of a less than pure marriage. _Toujours pur_, the Black family motto read: Always pure. Ron's whole family (aside from said accounting cousin) was pure; they'd been in Gryffindor for generations. All seven of the Weasley children, from Bill down to Ginny, had been Sorted into their parents' old house, and probably the house of their parents before them. Ron had grown up around magic and didn't know what it was like to live without it. Surely someone with that kind of upbringing would have been a much better choice.

But Harry realized that if that was going to be his reasoning, anybody was a better choice than he. It made his heart sink down into the mattress to think that he was now grasping at straws. He was looking for an excuse to claim the prophecy as a mistake. He was looking for a righteous argument. He was trying to reason why it should not be him.

_Why me?_ He wondered.

He lay in the darkness, sweat soaking the bottom sheet, cold still lodged in the pit of his stomach, heart sinking into the mattress; scar throbbing dully, or was that just the beginnings of a simple headache? He lay for a long time staring into the blackness that was the ceiling, the orange light slicing across him. It was true, he'd spent a month asking himself, "Why me?" And now, on this hot summer night, on his birthday of all times, he had come to the sudden realization that while it could be anyone it _was_ he. While there were no special abilities or powers that distinguished him in the wizard world there was no reason why he should _not_ be chosen any more than any of his friends or professors. "Why not me?" he whispered into the dark, pushing his hair off his forehead and sighing.

He had come to terms with being marked. He had at least accepted that his life could end sometime soon, or he could be responsible for ending another's life. But could he come to terms with being on the same level as Voldemort? _I can't handle that level of power_, he thought desperately, tears rising unbidden to his eyes, all his suppressed emotions suddenly threatening to burst forth from him in a howl of confusion. He rolled over and shoved his face into his pillow, knowing that such a howl would wake the Dursleys; dueling with Voldemort would almost be a picnic compared to Uncle Vernon's wrath.

_You conjured a corporeal Patronus_, the little voice said, but it was gentle and encouraging. _You've outwitted Voldemort five times now_. _The Killing Curse he meant to kill you fifteen years ago backfired onto him. You have abilities you haven't yet realized. When the time comes you'll be able to draw on them and do what you need to do._

Harry breathed heavily into the damp pillowcase, strangling back a sob: the voice in his head sounded at first like the voice of Sirius, and then like Dumbledore, and finally almost parental. He felt his shoulders shake and shoved his face into the pillow as a muffled howl escaped him. He did not know how long he cried. When it had stopped he simply felt drained. He picked a cotton sheet off the heap on the floor and swathed it around his sweaty body and crumpled back on the bed.

In that moment he wasn't powerful.

He wasn't the Boy Who Lived.

He was just a sixteen-year-old boy, unable to sleep on a hot night.


End file.
